


To Become a Knight

by rokubiraijuu



Category: Suikoden, Suikoden II
Genre: Gen, it's shippy at the end if you squint??, since it's for an exchange i didn't want to write like 8000+ words orz, tbh this was supposed to be a lot longer but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokubiraijuu/pseuds/rokubiraijuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only eldest sons in Camaro can take on knighthood, which leaves younger sons who chase the same dream to seek out opportunities elsewhere. A brief imagining of Camus' early journey on his way to Matilda to chase that dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Become a Knight

              “The fields are dangerous, I _know_ , father.”

              “I know we’ve been over this many times, but I want to make sure you understand, Camus. There are any number of monsters that can and will attack you as soon as you let your guard down, and while you are not completely helpless, you must know when you are outmatched. I want you to run away if danger finds you, all right?”

              The young boy frowns, brow knitting in an expression of calm determination that would return to him over the years, most notably in a confrontation with the Commander of the Matilda Knightdom more than a decade later that would be remembered in the history books as a decisive turning point at the height of the Unification War. But for now, it was simply the mark of obstinacy on a resistant child. “But why, father? Shouldn’t a knight always be willing to face danger head-on?” He grips the hilt of his sword tighter. “That’s what you always taught me.”

              Rubbing his forehead, the aging knight gives a low sigh. “A good knight who wants to stay alive knows when to pick his battles. You might be strong, but you’re still young. Some of those monsters out there, even I couldn’t fight on my own. I just want you to stay safe. When you finish your training and become a real knight, then I will trust that my own son can face any danger he puts his mind to.”

              Mollified but still uncertain, Camus frowns again. “O . . . Okay.”

              “And you know your uncle will meet you at Caleria, right? Don’t forget to look for him.”

              “I won’t.”

              “You’ve got everything else?”

              Before he can answer, a woman’s voice sounds from the threshold to the modest kitchen. “Not his dinner for tonight. I packed your favorite.” Placing the bundle in his arms, his mother looks him over with a resigned smile as he beams back up at her in gratitude. “You . . . really have to go, don’t you.”

              “He’s got to make something of himself,” comes a third voice from around the corner, and the figure of another young man, a large sword slung across his back, approaches the small family gathering. “Maybe he’ll be like uncle Emile, if he’s good enough.”

              “Let’s hope he’s not exactly like Emile and can serve a good long while as a knight before he gets injured like that,” his father says with a sigh as Camus scowls at his brother. “Here to see him off?”

              In a gesture of affection uncommonly lacking the rough teasing to go along with it, the young man pulls Camus into a hug, though after a few seconds, he can’t resist giving the top of his head a firm rub with his knuckles, earning a shout of protest from the younger. “You better come back someday and we can see who’s the better knight!”

              Camus just barely manages to break out of the hold, grumbling as he puts his hair back into place. “Hmph. It’s clearly going to be me, you’ll see.”

              “All right, Mua, enough messing around. The sun’s up now, and the farther you can get in daylight, the better. Are you ready?”

              Camus takes a deep breath and turns around to look at the stretch of path ahead of him. The grass lining the dirt road leading to their house sways, inviting him. Beyond, the rows of stores and other houses are ones he’s known for thirteen years. The clatter of horses’ hooves down the paved main street; the distant sounds of a woman haggling for prices at the stall, the twitter of early morning birds – he’s leaving it all behind now, for a world he’s never glimpsed. There’s some trepidation, but more than that, there’s excitement. It’s his very first journey, and if he can make it, he’ll be well on his way to becoming the greatest knight in Camaro!

              For a moment, he remembers the first time he told his parents he wanted to make the journey to Matilda, go into training to join the famous Knightdom. He’d spent weeks practicing the speech he’d delivered to them, about how he didn’t want to give up the life of the sword that his father had taught him despite knowing he could never become a Knight of Camaro, how he wanted to protect innocent lives, uphold the code of honor and chivalry that had defined the livelihood of his people and was the source of so much pride. All the heart of his twelve years had gone into expressing that. His mother had cried; unbeknownst to him, this had been a source of much conversation between her and her husband over the years; she didn’t see why he kept training Camus in swordplay if he was never going to become a knight, and now one of her greatest worries was manifesting in this speech: she was going to have to watch her younger son leave the house, possibly forever. His father, with the same calm level-headed demeanor that had been passed down to his younger child, had been silent for some time before, as Camus had expected, beginning to challenge his dreams. Why did he want to become a knight? Wanting to defend the innocent was a good reason, but he also needed a goal that was closer to his person, something tangible, visible, that could propel him through years of training, of hardship, of failure. Being a knight was not simply about lifting one’s sword and being called a hero, he’d said. Camus hadn’t had a good answer for that. His father had suggested that he choose a different path, something that would keep him in Camaro, close to home – why not be a merchant? Or raise horses? If he liked swords, he could take on an apprenticeship as a blacksmith. But Camus’ heart was set, though it took two more years for his parents to see that and relent.

              Straightening his back, he shoulders his pack a little higher. A week’s worth of provisions is a generous estimate for how long it would take him to get to Duck Village in the Grasslands; his parents had also given him a sizable pouch of potch for supplies. He had packed a change of clothes and a few skins of water, and on his person of course carries the sword his father had purchased for him a couple of years back and a smaller dagger. This is his last chance to turn back, but the eyes of his heart are looking straight ahead.

              “I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

              In the late summer, the cooling northern winds sweep through the Grasslands in preparation for autumn, creating seas of rippling, sighing plains for miles to the horizon. It’s the perfect time of year to be in the Duck Clan lands, where the proximity to the lake brings lower temperatures and reinforces the wind, making one easily forget that the summer months are not yet over. He is not the only one who realizes this; people from all over the Grasslands make a summer journey here to take advantage of the climate, and it’s the first time he’s seen so many different styles of dress, of speech. His first encounter with a member of the Lizard Clan had him nearly soiling his pants from the other’s enormous stature, and the glint of those claws and teeth, combined with the terrifying size of its glide in its hand as it had argued with the innkeeper about its accommodations, had Camus certain that the confrontation was going to end with the duck brutally cleaved in half. To his surprise, the exchange concluded amicably enough, but he kept his distance from lizards for a while after that and quickly began to see why his father had called them the most fearsome warriors of the Grasslands. How any enemy could face them and not at least _consider_ running in the other direction, he doesn’t know.

              The ducks themselves, at least, are innocuous enough. Accustomed to outsiders and tourists in their lands, they treat him with ready hospitality, not even very surprised to hear he’s from the Free Knights of Camaro. His first night, he samples a green-colored beverage he’s never had before, pleasantly surprised at the sweet tart burst of flavor in his mouth. He learns it’s made from a fruit called “kiwi” and presently orders more of it. They’re such a calm, harmless people, many of them content to spend the day floating on the still waters of the lake with heads tucked under their wings, that he can’t imagine them in battle at all. At least, this is his opinion of them until he spots what he guesses must be a guard roaming about the village one day, and his halberd is easily the length of his body, if not longer, the curved and sharpened blade looking just as capable of cutting him in two as the lizard’s weapon.

              And those aren’t the only ones. For the first time, he meets the famed warriors of Karaya, though it would be years before he realized that the arrogance he had initially faulted them for was not in fact an attitude of superiority, but of deep-seated pride for their heritage and their culture, and that in many ways their values were similar to those of the people he had grown up with. And these are only the ones he recognizes; there are countless others that he couldn’t begin to identify, the variety of foreign clothes and accents almost overwhelming.

              It’s tempting to stay there, take in the sights and good weather for a little bit longer. After almost a week sleeping on open grass with nothing softer than moss for a pillow, his bed at the inn feels more comfortable than ever, and the thought of leaving it so soon fills him with reluctant longing. But he can’t waste time; the funds his parents had given him wouldn’t last forever, and he would have to travel through Harmonia for part of his journey, which would become more and more unpleasant the colder the weather became. The next leg of his trip would be the most difficult; from the map and what his father told him, it would take roughly a week of travel to get to the border trade city of Caleria where his uncle would be waiting for him to escort him through Harmonia and into City-State territory. The terrain would be rough; the Plains of Amur weren’t so bad, but for weeks, he had been warned about the treacherous terrain of the mountain path road. The only ones who could easily traverse it were the mantor riders of Le Buque, but that was because they could fly. For everyone else, the winding road overlooking a steep cliff drop could prove fatal to an unwary traveler, or one traveling by night. The density of monsters lurking there too had been a point his father had reminded him of repeatedly, but he hoped that as long as he kept a low profile, didn’t do anything to disturb the landscape, and simply made his way through as quickly as possible, he wouldn’t have face too many challenges.

              “I heard you’re on your way to Caleria.” A voice suddenly cuts through his thoughts as he’s analyzing the map spread out on the table before him, and he jumps a little in surprise, lifting his head to see a man standing before him, light-skinned, fair-haired, dressed in clothes he doesn’t recognize, with a sword at his hip. He looks distinguished, like someone to be respected, someone who knows their way with a sword. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s Wyatt.”

              Blinking, Camus looks him over for a second before standing to greet him with a respectful nod, reaching out for a handshake which the man, after a moment, returns. “I’m Camus,” he replies. “Yes, I’m . . . traveling to Caleria. How did you know?”

              “Word gets around in a little village like this. The innkeeper was worried about a kid like you traveling alone, and I thought I might help. I’m on my way to Tinto and I thought I’d ask if I could accompany you.”

              “I’m not a kid.”

              The older man just laughs a little. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, of course. Still, even someone like me could use some help on the road from time to time, so what do you say?”

 

* * *

 

              It turns out he’d made the right decision in agreeing; it became clear from the first evening, when Wyatt shows him some of the herbs and plants that dot the grasses of the plains and what they can be used for. It’s for nothing more than the sake of conversation, but Camus would never have noticed the tiny clovers or differences in the grasses if he had never been told. The sprigs of grass with the prickly leaves took away hunger when chewed on consistently after having been boiled to soften the spines, and the sap that leaked from the roots of the bush that grew red berries helped to stop infection on open wounds. “But don’t eat the berries,” Wyatt warned. “Those’ll kill a grown man in less than an hour.”

              “Are you from around here? How do you know so much?”

              Wyatt just laughed. “No, I’m not from the Grasslands. But I’m been around here before and you pick up on some things when you’ve spent enough time in one place.”

              They tried to cover the most distance possible in the late morning and afternoon, when most creatures were asleep or resting and wouldn’t trouble them unless they disturbed them first. Wyatt was good company too; the hours went much faster as Camus listened to him describe life in Zexen, where he assumed he was from. He was fascinated by Wyatt’s talk of the towering castles and streets made entirely of paved stone without any soil to be seen, and almost wished that he had time to make a detour to see them.

              “Do you have any kids?” he asks one night as they’re sitting beneath the wide expanse of cloudless sky – no campfire, because even the smallest flame out here could start a brushfire that would quickly decimate miles and endanger their lives. Wyatt has just finished telling him about the daughter of the clan chief of the Karayan village, a proud and assertive young girl, as an example of how, unlike what Camus is used to, both boys and girls in Karaya become warriors when they reach the appropriate age.

              There’s a slight pause before the older man smiles. “No.” Another pause and a softer smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

              “Not yet?”

              But he waves off the question, changing the topic instead. “Camus, you . . . you’re leaving your family behind to become a knight, right?”

              “Yeah . . . “

              “Do you miss them?”

              He thinks about it for a few seconds; he’s not used to not seeing his mother, father, and Mua every day. And while he knows that becoming a knight of Matilda, if he can make it, means that he’ll have to stay and live there and won’t be able to go back home for a long time, he still figures he’ll be able to see them within the next ten years, right? “Not really,” he replies, then pauses. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m going to be the best knight ever, and then when I go home again, I’ll be able to show them everything I’ve done.”

              “That’s a good spirit to have. I’m sure your parents will be proud of you.” For several long seconds, they simply sit and enjoy the view, the soft sounds of chewing the only noises apart from the backdrop of wildlife and open winds as Camus down the night’s rations. Wyatt’s heavy sigh draws his attention back to him after a time. “I hope any child I have never has to wield a sword, though,” he continues.

              That surprises him. “You don’t want your son to be a knight, defending his people, his family?”

              Wyatt begins to arrange his belongings and settles onto his back, head on his pack, for the night. “I don’t want my son _or_ daughter to have to grow up knowing about fighting, about war. It might be noble, but . . . the costs.” He sighs. “I’d rather have them take up a quill, become a tradesman, work in government. But to go out on a battlefield and takes lives?” He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s because I’m thinking more and more about being a father lately.” Turning to face Camus, he shrugs. “I guess if you ever have kids of your own one day, you’ll see.”

              Camus just makes a face – it’s something his own father had said to him before, and his mother too, especially in the recent years. Not that he dislikes the idea, but it’s so far away from him that the thought makes him balk. And anyway, unlike his other friends, he’s never had much of an interest in girls to begin with.

 

* * *

 

              After three days on the plains, the ground begins to harden beneath his feet, grass slowly giving way to compact soil and rocks that seem to grow with every passing mile. A sure sign that they’re close to the mountain pass, Wyatt tells him. He’ll take him as far as halfway, he says, but then he has to split and go a different route through the Badlands to Tinto. Despite Camus’ questions about why he can’t even stop in Caleria to rest and replenish supplies, he doesn’t receive much of an answer, only “there’s nothing but bad news waiting for me there. It’s best if I keep my distance.” Camus can’t place it, but there’s been something jumpy about Wyatt since he’d mentioned their proximity to the mountain path this morning, as if he’s anticipating the worst. He simply regards it as apprehension about the dangerous terrain and monsters lying ahead.

 

* * *

 

              “Where did you learn how to wield a sword?” Camus picks his way carefully around a cluster of boulders arranged along the edge of the path. About a day ago, the rocky path had abruptly narrowed, now hardly wide enough for two grown men to walk side by side. Just to be safe, they traveled in a line, Wyatt a few paces behind him in case monsters decided to creep up from the rear. Additionally, the rock faces on their right had grown smaller and smaller until they dropped off completely, leaving nothing but open air several hundreds of feet above the forest canopy below and a sheer, nearly ninety degree cliff face. He tries his best not to look over the edge of the path, the distance alone making his head spin a little. His father hadn’t been exaggerating; one misstep and he would surely plummet to his death.

              Behind him, the rhythmic boot steps give him a little comfort. Though he won’t admit it, Camus knows that if he had to travel alone, he would be a lot more afraid than even he likes to acknowledge. “Hm? Oh, I was self-taught,” Wyatt replies. “No one else where I grew up knew anything about fighting.”

              “So why did you want to be a warrior, then?”

              “Good question. To be honest, I just wanted to get out and see the world; travel a little bit. It ended up getting me into a lot of trouble -- ” he chuckles a little, “ – but it was worth it in the end. Or maybe it wasn’t. I guess it depends on who you ask.” There’s a soft wistfulness, maybe even sadness, to his tone, but Camus doesn’t think to press for more details.

              Another few minutes and a particularly perilous bend in the path later, Camus starts again. “My father always says that being a knight isn’t just about honor and chivalry like the others say.”

              “I would agree with that.”

              “He’s always warning me about how hard it can be,” he admits, a little frustrated. “He grew up as a knight too, and sometimes he doesn’t even sound proud of it.”

              “Only the eldest sons can become knights of Camaro, right?”

              “Yeah.”

              Overhead, a broad-winged eagle soars on an updraft. Camus finds himself wishing he could fly like that right about now. “I think he is still proud of being a knight,” Wyatt says from behind him. “But he is right that there is a lot of hardship. And it’s not just knights, either. Anyone who fights, who wields a sword or any weapon into war, there’s going to be that kind of hardship.”

              “Like being afraid and having to follow commands you don’t like. That’s what he always told me.”

              “And not only that. You’re going to be fighting other people, other people with lives and families too. Sometimes you have to kill them. And sometimes . . . you lose your friends, too.”

              Camus frowns down at his feet solemnly; losing his friends. He hadn’t thought of that. Briefly, he thinks about his friends back home; some of them were going to become Camaro Knights. Would they die, one day? Maybe he would never see them again. In his wandering thoughts, he steps on a rock that comes loose, pulling him off balance. A shock of panic fills him for an instant before an arm grabs his wrist from behind, yanking him upright again. “Whoa! Watch out; you’ve got to stay focused in a place like this.”

              “Sorry,” he mutters, face flushing in embarrassment. After another minute of concentration: “ . . . did you . . . ever lose a friend like that?”

              “ . . . Maybe we should keep watching the path for now, Camus.”

              He can hardly imagine it. But, he reasons, this is all part of what it means to be a knight. And as a knight, he has to still be strong in the face of things like this, and he can’t let worries discourage him from protecting those around him, from protecting those who can’t protect themselves. If he can’t do that, then he was never meant to be a knight, and wouldn’t have been born in Camaro.

              Suddenly, out of nowhere, a searing beam of light passes just an inch shy of his right arm from above. With a cry of alarm, he instinctively leaps back, tumbling onto the ground beside the rock wall, eyes wide in alarm.

              “Camus!”

              There’s a stinging pain on his arm, and he glances over to see the sleeve of his shirt burned away, the skin just beneath his shoulder red and starting to swell. But he isn’t bleeding. “What was that!” His answer comes not a moment too soon, as a creature jumps down from the path above. About four feet tall, thin and waif-like, the purple monster is hardly more than a stick on two legs, its bulbous head encompassed entirely by one giant, gleaming red eye. Its two twig-like arms end in three curved sickle claws each the length of a short sword and looking sharper than razors. The creature steps forward towards him, its single eye locked on him, then arches its neck, craning its head forward. Its eye begins to gleam.

              “Camus, move!”

              He shields his face instead, bracing himself for the worst, and then there’s the scattering crunch of rocks and he opens his eyes to realize Wyatt’s in front of him, sword poised to absorb the beam of red light that fires at him. With a grunt, he fends off the blow. “Get up!”

              Heart in his throat, somehow Camus scrambles to his feet. His legs are trembling, and he nearly drops his sword as he draws it from the scabbard. “What _is_ that?”

              “A devil eye,” Wyatt replies, taking a swipe at the monster, but it shifts out of the way on its strange, three-toed legs. “Be careful; the edge is still close.”

              It’s aptly named, he thinks to himself, backing up further against the cave wall, a little unsure what to do. No, he’s had training before, even if it’s been against his father and Mua. He can wield a sword; he can fight off a monster, right? With a shaky battle cry, he lunges forward as the monster is distracted, slicing at its left arm. Dark blood sprays from the incision, startling him, and the creature takes his moment of hesitation to lash out, making a loud hissing, screeching noise in anger. Its claws rake across his shoulder as he tries to move out of the way, tearing open the fabric of his shirt. Unsettled by the attack, he tries to strike again, but the monster easily moves out of the way, then turns to face him, its eye glowing bright again. Scrambling to not be struck by that beam of red light, Camus dashes to the side, but suddenly feels the ground beneath his foot give way. In his concentration on the monster, he’d forgotten Wyatt’s warning about the cliff edge. With a scream, he feels himself drop, hands reaching out in a panic to grip onto whatever he can. Rough rock and dirt scrapes at his fingers and palms, but by some stroke of luck he manages to latch onto a root jutting out of the mountainside and his descent comes to a jarring halt, the sword plummeting from his hand and out of sight into the trees below.

              A second later, he hears a shredding scream as Wyatt takes advantage of its distraction to sever the Devil Eye’s head from its spindly neck, and the creature collapses to the dirt, twitching for a few seconds before lying still. “Camus!” He hears Wyatt call several feet above him. “Shit, Camus!”

              “I – I-I’m here! I’m here, Wyatt! Help!” His voice is shaking violently, along with the rest of him, but sheer adrenaline and fear has him gripping the root with all the force he can. Desperately, he tries to swing his other hand up to it as well, but misses, and the little bit of grip he loses from the momentum draws a whimper of terror from him, and he doesn’t try it again. “Help!”

              “Hold on, just hold on.” Above, he can see Wyatt lying down on his stomach, having spotted him, and is slowly extending an arm down for him to grab onto. “Can you reach my hand?”

              Camus looks at the space between him and the other’s hand, panic blocking his throat. “I don’t know. I’ll fall!”

              “You won’t fall,” Wyatt reassures him, and there’s a firm calmness to his voice that convinces him, somehow. “It’s only a couple feet. You can reach, come on.” He squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes it worse, so he opens them again, then summons all the courage he can and, with a grunt, throws his other arm up as high as he can. Wyatt grabs onto his arm, and not a moment too soon as Camus’ other hand slips from the root, his scream ringing off the cliff side. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

              And then there’s solid earth beneath him again, dizzyingly stable. He’s crouched on his hands and knees, shaking so hard he thinks he might just fall apart. Wyatt’s hand is rubbing down his back and he’s trying to soothe him, asking him if he’s okay. Camus’ legs feel weak, like the bones in them have dissolved, and only when he swallows, trying to calm himself down, does he feel the sting of the scratches on his palms. They’re red when he turns them over, bleeding slightly and covered in dirt. “Come on,” Wyatt murmurs, gently tugging him onto his feet. “You’re okay now. Stay still, let’s get your scratches cleaned. We don’t want to stick around here too long, or else more of those things’ll come looking for us.”

              He’s silent as Wyatt washes the cuts with the water from one of his skins, then applies some medicine onto his palms and the skin on his arm before bandaging his hands. “There. Now you look a little more like a warrior, scuffed up a bit.”

              Despite himself, Camus manages a weak little laugh. “I – lost my sword, though.”

              “That can be replaced. Come on, let’s get moving. Can you walk?” Hesitantly, he takes a step. It’s a little unsteady, but he nods. “Good. You were brave, attacking it like that. You’re almost at Caleria now.”

              He remembers their conversation from the other day and looks up at Wyatt, wide-eyed. “Does – does that mean you’re leaving?”

              “Yeah, soon. A little further on. But it’s less than a day’s walk the rest of the way to Caleria, so you’ll be fine. You’ve got your dagger?” He nods. “Just run if there’s any danger, but you should be okay. You’ve had your first fight – granted, it was a monster, not another person, but it gets better from here on out.”

              Now a little calmer, Camus musters up his spirit a little more and stands a bit taller. With a little smile, he reaches out his hand. “Then . . . it was my honor traveling with you, Wyatt. You saved my life.”

              Taking his offered hand, the other gives it a firm shake. “I’m sure you’ll save the lives of a lot of other people someday. Maybe one day I’ll hear talk of a brave young knight from Matilda in a war somewhere.”

              Camus’ smile broadens. “Yeah, I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

              “And then I found my uncle Emile in Caleria, told him my journey and showed him the little battle scars I’d gotten.” A light, wistful chuckle escapes slightly parted lips. “The rest of it is boring; our trip through Harmonia was uneventful, and I made it to Rockaxe without incident. Everything after that --- well, you know.”

              The muffled clop of hooves on grass fills the small space between them. “And the warrior? Wyatt? Did you ever see him again?”

              A faint furrow creases that light, placid brow as Camus looks off across the endless plains, lost for a few moments in thought as Miklotov admires him. “Come to think of it, I haven’t. I wonder what became of him. I suppose he went back to his life in Zexen . . . I wish I could find him again. I would like to ask if he managed to keep his child from becoming a knight.”

              The man to his left gives a long, quiet sigh. “Maybe he was right. Being a knight isn’t for everyone.”

              “That doesn’t sound like the Miklotov I know,” Camus remarks with fond surprise, looking over at him. “What happened to all your long treatises on knightliness? What is it – ‘the privilege of being able to wield a sword in service of the people is the greatest I have ever known?’”

              The bashful look that comes across the blue knight’s face only makes him smile grow. “I was just thinking about this past year, that’s all. Sometimes . . . being a knight isn’t just about swinging a sword and saving people after all. I keep thinking about that village, Milit, and what happened to them . . . “

              A brief silence, and Camus’ little huff is almost inaudible. “You’re starting to sound like my father. He always said things like that. Before I left home, he asked me, once . . . well, he told me that I needed a better reason to be a knight than just protecting the innocent.” Shifting his gaze out to the horizon again, he continues: “I needed something more concrete, something I could see and touch, that would keep me going when it was difficult to.”

              “What did you say?”

              “ . . . I wanted to protect people I loved.” He looks at him again, his smile adoring. “People like you.”

              As predicted, the other knight’s face flushes with color. “C-Camus -- ”

              “Oh, look.” Stifling a chuckle to save Miklotov from his embarrassment, he pulls his horse to a stop, gesturing out to the distance with a gloved hand. “There it is. See that? The city of Camaro.”

              “We’re almost there.” Miklotov smiles, straightening up in his saddle. “How long has it been since you’ve been home?”

              “Fourteen years,” he replies with a long exhale. “And now, I’m bringing you there with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist the Miklotov / Camus at the end I'm trash orz
> 
> And Mua as Camus' older brother!! yes good things
> 
> Also yes Wyatt / Jimba makes an appearance! Of course I couldn't write something without it being ever so slightly angsty so the talk about his future kid is my little drop of angst sort of I guess. I know he was pretty much just in Zexen at the time of this fic but I don't see it being impossible that he could have journeyed around for various reasons from time to time, so that's what I'm going with as my excuse.


End file.
